The Glass Virgin

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘What are you staring at, you’re miles away? What are you thinking about? About the brave man? He was wonderful, wasn’t he? Oh, it’s been a wonderful, wonderful day. You know what I was thinking, Stephen, just before I saw you?’ She didn’t wait for his reply but went on, ‘I was thinking of when I’ll be sixteen because on that day I’ll be in London, and I’ll be wearing a beautiful gown and I’ll go to a ball and I’ll see all the great sights, and the Queen. Papa says I’ll be presented to the Queen. Just imagine, Stephen, being presented to the Queen . . . ’ She leant her head back on her shoulders and gazed up at the big brass rings on the curtains as she said quite solemnly, ‘I do hope I don’t grow up ugly, Stephen.’

  His burst of laughter brought her head forward and she shook his hand again, saying, ‘What are you laughing at?’

  ‘You growing up ugly, and the way you said it. You know fine well you won’t grow up ugly, you’re a little minx.’ He was leaning forward looking into her eyes now. ‘Every year you’ll grow more beautiful and by the time you’re sixteen and you go to London you’ll be so ravishing that all the gentlemen will ride out to accompany you into town, and the band will play and flags will wave and everyone will forget about the Queen and they’ll say, “Who wants to look at that plain-looking thing when there’s the beautiful Miss Annabella Lagrange.”’

  Her head was back, her mouth was wide and her laughter high and gurgling, not at all as her mama had taught her to laugh. And Stephen was laughing with her, but when she, of a sudden, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth he fell back against the stanchion of the window and to save her and himself falling off the sill he put his arms about her. And that was how Edmund Lagrange saw them when, attracted by their laughter, he came through the open door of the nursery and into the bedroom.

  Stephen had never been afraid of his uncle. He was aware that his uncle did not like him very much, but this he put down to the fact that he himself was related to the Conway-Redford side of the family. From as far back as he could remember he had heard rumours of his uncle’s exploits and for over a year now he had known that his uncle, besides being an inveterate gambler, was a womaniser; yet even with this knowledge and all the warnings his great Uncle James had given him regarding the man, he still had a sneaking regard for him, for when in a good humour he found his uncle very entertaining.

  But now with his uncle’s hands around his throat and his breath almost leaving his body he kicked and punched at the man until he found himself floating away to the accompaniment of Annabella’s screams.

  When he regained consciousness he was lying in his room and his Aunt Rosina was pressing a wet cloth to his throat. He tried to speak, but Rosina said softly, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’ However, he must speak. His mind was very clear, startlingly so, he knew why his uncle had attacked him. His aunt must know the truth. He raised himself on his elbow and began, ‘I . . . I didn’t do anything wrong, Aunt Rosina. We . . . we were laughing, just laughing, and I said she was pretty and she . . . ’ He moved his head in a wide sweep, feeling it wasn’t gallant to say Annabella had kissed him, but Rosina helped him out. ‘It’s quite all right, dear,’ she said softly; ‘Annabella is impulsive, it would be she who kissed you, I understand.’

  ‘Thank you, Aunt Rosina.’ He lay back on the pillow and drew in a long, shuddering breath. Then looking at her again, he said, ‘She’s just a child, Aunt Rosina, only ten. How could Uncle . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself any more about it, Stephen.’

  ‘Will . . . will I have to return home?’

  She lowered her eyes as she said, ‘Yes, I’m afraid so; but don’t worry, you may come again shortly.’

  Once more he was shaking his head. ‘I’m so sorry, Aunt Rosina. It had been such a wonderful day for her, and I spoilt it.’

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself in any way, Stephen. As you say, Annabella is but a child and she acted like a child. She’s very fond of you, Stephen.’

  ‘And I, too, Aunt Rosina, I’m very fond of Annabella, very fond; she’s been like a sister to me.’

  He was looking up at his Aunt Rosina and she was looking down at him, and now she said a very strange thing. She said, ‘But she’s not your sister, Stephen, and there’s no need for you to go on thinking of her as your sister . . . you understand?’

  No, he didn’t, not quite, in fact not at all. He was sixteen but rather young for his age, yet if anyone else had said these words he would have put on them a certain construction, a construction that he was sure his aunt never intended, so therefore he didn’t quite understand her.

  She said now, ‘I will tell Faill to come and attend you and I’ll see you in the morning before you leave. I will give you a letter for Aunt Emma explaining everything. Now don’t worry.’ She touched his brow lightly with her fingers, then went out and along the corridor and she wasn’t surprised when Alice, standing some distance from her bedroom door, signalled to her that her husband awaited her within.

  She paused a moment while she stared at Alice, then she opened the door and went into the room to see him standing in the middle of it, his face still white, his hair still dishevelled. She saw at once that his rage had not diminished.

  ‘Huh!’ He jerked his head up as he made the sound and went immediately into a tirade. ‘The name of Lagrange stinks in your nostrils, doesn’t it? It spells for you lechering, whoring, gambling, chicanery, anything but what’s decent, whereas the name of Redford is synonymous with the pure, the chaste, the godlike, and a sixteen-year-old Redford wouldn’t dream of practising on a ten year old, now would he? But he did . . . ripe for bed, he picked a ten year old . . . ’

  ‘Be quiet! Be quiet, do you hear me?’ She hissed at him as she bent forward from the waist, her long sustained anger forcing itself through the armour of her façade. ‘Whatever was done, whatever you saw, was prompted by Annabella.’

  ‘You’re a liar! She’s still a child, as innocent as when I first threw her on that bed.’ He flung his arm backwards.

  ‘There you make a mistake for it would be impossible for her to be wholly innocent having sprung from you . . . But one thing she hasn’t learned from you yet, and that is to lie and cheat and torture . . . ’ She paused, her breath catching in her throat, while they glared at each other; then she went on, ‘She’s admitted to me quite frankly that it was she who put her arms around him and kissed him. It was her way of thanking him for helping to make her birthday happy. But your jaundiced eye saw nothing but evil, because you live by evil, you ooze evil, you have not one decent human trait in you.’ She swallowed deeply and moved her tongue inside her mouth. Then she made herself voice something that she had told herself all day must be ignored and placed in the dark chamber of her mind, where lay all the other things he had imagined had hoodwinked her. ‘That woman, you arranged for her to be there, taking the carriage down that notorious street, those creatures at the window, but her, brazenly staring, staring . . . ’

  When she couldn’t go on speaking with her lips but only with her eyes, he glared back at her and, with his mouth almost square depicting his feelings of scorn, he sent words like icicles through her flesh. ‘And why not?’ he said. ‘I don’t consider it a sin that a mother should look at her daughter once in a while. You look down your long, aristocratic nose at her and her like, don’t you? But she produced what your barren belly could never do, she produced a child, and the irony of it is, that child is your life now and’ – his words slowed and became weighted with threat – ‘I have the power to cut off that life and it would pay you to remember that, my dear, pure Rosina. And while I’m at it I may as well tell you what I’ve been considering for a long time; her education is going to be changed, there’s going to be less God and quite a bit more Mammon in it, she’s going to be got ready for marriage, and I, my dear Rosina . . . will pick the man.’

 
The hate between them rose like a mist and blurred her vision and when Rosina next saw him he was at the door looking towards her, and as if through his last words he had read her own desire with regard to her daughter’s future, he ended, ‘And don’t let me catch your precious, mealy-mouthed nephew in this house again, because if I do I swear I’ll take a horsewhip to him.’

  He pulled the door behind him with a resounding bang, marched across the landing, down the main staircase, through the hall and the conservatory, and Cargill, the third footman, not being agile enough to get to the doors before him, he wrenched them open, banging one back into the man’s face.

  When he reached the stables there was no-one about, but his bellowing soon brought the coachman and the stable boys rushing from the room above the coach house.

  ‘Get me Fairisle saddled.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir.’ The stable boys ran into the stable at the double, they saw that their master had the mood on him and it would behove them to watch out. But Armorer, the coachman, who directed the saddling, was a little peeved. He’d had a long day. And then there was that business at the glass house; that had shaken him, more than he cared to admit openly. And now, almost nine o’clock, here was the master demanding a horse to be saddled. There was only one good thing about it, Fairisle wasn’t tired; she’d had no exercise for two days, she was fresh and raring to go, the time of day didn’t matter to her.

  The horse saddled and brought into the yard, Lagrange mounted, then set the animal off almost immediately into a gallop down the west drive, which was unusual and, as Armorer said to Heron, somebody would have to go along the whole length and level that out in the morning.

  The lodgekeeper, too, was surprised when he was called upon to open the gates, and when, with the privilege of long service dating from the mistress’ grandfather, he dared to speak first and say, ‘I hope, Master, there’s nothing wrong, no trouble at the house?’ for answer he got a dark, ferocious look, which told him that the only trouble at the house was his master having the mood on him.

  Off the road and out on the open fells, Lagrange gave the horse its head and as it galloped over heather-covered flats, hillocks and loose scree hills, his anger gradually seeped from him.

  The long twilight was deepening as he passed through Rosier’s village; the men squatting on their hunkers outside their houses in the dry mud street, the women sitting on their steps, their blouses open to let the cool air on to their sweating bodies, the youths on the open ground playing quoits, all looked at him with interest. He knew he was known to them as Lagrange the gambler, the man who would bet on anything from a frog to a Frenchman, and the title didn’t displease him.

  Further on he passed the mine, and when, in a narrow lane, he came on a group of miners who had just come off their shift and who showed no intention of making way for his horse, he had the urge to gallop into their midst, but he was, at the present moment, deep in Rosier’s debt for coal supplied to the works and the house, and were he to injure one of his workmen, animal-like individuals though they were, Rosier would perhaps turn nasty, so, not waiting until they came to the end of the lane and letting them think they’d got the better of him, as was their intention, he set the horse at a steep bank and turned in the direction of home again.

  He was going at a trot through a copse when he saw to the right of him a number of milling figures and not until he had drawn the horse to a halt did he discern that they were fighting. This he found interesting, so he guided the horse gently over the leaf-strewn ground towards them, and as he drew nearer he noticed, through the deepening twilight, that two men were already laid out on the grass apparently senseless, but others were still battling it out. It looked as if four men were attacking one.

  He guessed by their dress and their small stature that they were miners, likely Rosier’s savages, and he was about to leave them to their dispute when a foot came upwards and kicked one of the men in the stomach and sent him reeling, then a hand was thrust from the mêlée and gripped the hair of another assailant. As this man’s head was brought downwards Lagrange saw for a fleeting second the face of the victim of the attack straining upwards. It was that of the Spaniard, one of his men.

  When he rode his horse at the group, his whip lashing downwards, they scattered like rabbits into the undergrowth leaving their two mates and the long figure of the Spaniard on the ground.

  By the time Lagrange had dismounted, the Spaniard had raised himself on to his elbow. But he looked the worse for wear; blood was running freely from a slit in his temple, his coat sleeve was half ripped off and blood was oozing through his shirt.

  ‘Can you get to your feet?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m all right.’

  Lagrange put one hand under his armpit and helped him up. When erect the young fellow leant against a tree and closed his eyes tightly for a moment, then, giving a single shake to his head he looked at Lagrange and said, ‘Thanks. It’s lucky for me you were passin’.’

  ‘You’re a long way from your place of work, aren’t you?’

  ‘Aye, but I like to get into the open; I take a dander in the evenin’.’

  The man was his workman but he wasn’t giving him the appendage of ‘Sir’ and again the omission irritated him. He said curtly now, ‘How did you manage to run foul of that mob?’

  ‘I just asked them the way. All I said was, “Can you tell me where Mr George Boston lives?” and not one of them answered me, they just walked on. Then about five minutes later when I came through the wood here they were waiting. If they’d come two at a time I’d have managed them, but they came in a bunch.’ He wiped the blood from his mouth and cheek with the side of his hand.

  Lagrange stared at him. He was looking for George Boston. ‘Why were you looking for Mr Boston?’ he asked.

  ‘Because he has horses. Breeds them. One of the glass men told me. I’d like to work with horses again, dearly I would.’ He moved his head to one side while still looking at Lagrange and ended, his tone half apologetic, ‘I’m not cut out for glass-makin’, as I told you earlier on. The wage is good and it’s the first job I was ever given drink money in. I like a drink, but they’re a sodden lot with the beer most of the time . . . Then there’s their Society; you’ve got to join. I’m against being pressed. Too much like slavery. No; give me horses.’

  Lagrange continued to look at him. Boston would snap up this fellow, not only for his horses, but also on account of the man’s fists. That’s what he had said as they left the yard: ‘I wonder if he can use his fists.’ Good fighters were hard to come by, as were men who could really handle horses. He said abruptly, ‘You’re miles away from Mr Boston’s place, he’s across the county. Look, I think you’d better come back with me and have that eye attended to.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, thanks all the same, but . . . but I’d better be makin’ me way back to the town. I don’t know the roads hereabouts and who knows, I might run into another bunch.’

  ‘That’s not unlikely.’ Lagrange turned towards his horse as if about to mount, saying as he did so, ‘You want to work with horses?’

  ‘Indeed I do.’

  ‘I need a groom, particularly someone who can teach my young daughter to ride and handle a horse; she’s afraid of horses.’

  ‘Is she now? Well, I could learn her. And thank you for the offer. Thank you, thank you indeed.’ He was still wiping the blood with the side of his hand from his cheek and one eye was swelling, but his face looked darkly bright and alert as he ended, ‘An’ I’ll take you up on your kind offer and come along with you.’ Then looking towards the still prone figures on the ground, he said, ‘What’ll I do about them?’

  ‘Nothing. As soon as we’re gone their mates will return.’ When Lagrange saw him hesitate he said abruptly, ‘Don’t bother, I tell you, come along.’ And with that he mounted his horse and moved off.

 
Manuel Mendoza walked by the side of his new master, who was also his old master and he laughed gently and said, ‘This is like a miracle. I’m very grateful an’ I can promise you that your daughter’ll lose her fear of the animal.’ He put out his hand now and touched the horse’s coat with gentle fingers.

  Edmund Lagrange had followed hunches all his life. When he followed them faithfully he made money; when he was dilatory in following them he lost money. He now had a hunch that he was on to a good thing with this young fellow; yet at the same time he was irritated by him. Looking down at him now he asked, ‘Have you ever done any boxing?’

  ‘Boxing?’ The arched black eyebrows moved upward. ‘No.’

  ‘But you are very strong, you’ve got unusually strong hands.’

  ‘Aye, yes, I have that.’ There was no arrogance in the admission, it was merely a statement. ‘But I keep them for the animals. I have no desire to bash a man’s face in.’

  ‘No? But you want to protect yourself; look what happened tonight.’

  ‘I didn’t do so bad all told, I had the first two on their backs in seconds and if they’d come in pairs, as I said, I’d have managed them.’

  ‘If you had learned the art of fisticuffs you would have been able to deal with the lot of them and at one go I’m sure.’

  ‘Very likely.’

  The reply was conversational and the manner not that to which Edmund Lagrange was used when dealing with his employees. The fellow’s attitude showed no sign of his awareness of class and the distinctions therein. He was addressing him as an equal, as he himself might address one of his own acquaintances, and his bearing, strangely irritating in an inferior, had a haughtiness about it. Dressed differently he would likely have passed for something other than he was, that is if he didn’t open his mouth, for although he had the attractive burr of the Southern Irish and not the coarse, guttural twang and almost unintelligible jargon of the Tynesider, his speech was that of the common man. He was a common man, and if he was to be in his service he must be made to realise this, and from the beginning. So looking down on to the blood-streaked face, he brought it sharply round in his direction by saying, ‘It is usual for my servants to address me as Sir.’